


After the Fire

by MaladyPond



Series: Heart of Deluge [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22370983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaladyPond/pseuds/MaladyPond
Summary: How one Immortal escaped PompeiiWhen, at last, I emerged from the rubble, clarity was slow to return. Before that moment, there had only been the fire . . . It flowed through me, an inseparable part of me.
Series: Heart of Deluge [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610425
Kudos: 4





	After the Fire


    I awoke in hell.  
    
    At least, that's what it felt like. My throat and lungs were burning. My eyes stung; I couldn't tell if it was genuinely dark or I was blinded. It felt as though I were ensnared in fire. Moving fire. _Living_ fire.  
    
    I groaned as the fire receded from my face. I lost consciousness - or perhaps I died - repeatedly before I was able to move my limbs any significant distance.  
    
    My hands struggled for purchase along the walls of my prison. How long had I been here? I had no way of knowing. Hours? Days? What had happened to leave me trapped in such a place?  
    
    And why had my life been spared?  
    
    When, at last, I emerged from the rubble, clarity was slow to return. Before that moment, there had only been the fire. I had been born in the fire, of the fire, had known no existence beyond the fire swirling around me. It flowed through me, an inseparable part of me.  
    
    Then I took my first breath of air in I had no idea how long, and I knew there had to have been life before the fire.  
    
    My skin and hair were still falling off me as glowing embers from a sacrificial -  
    
    Had I been sacrificed? Had a gaggle of priests decided I should be given to the goddess who had given me my name?  
    
    I brushed that thought aside as my eyes recovered. There was a dark cloud over the area, dulling the sunlight, and I was grateful for it.  
    
    I allowed myself to lie on what I guessed was the roof of a temple for quite some time as my vision returned. Several times, I coughed so hard, I expelled some of the river of fire I had inhaled.  
    
    In those moments, I hoped for the sweet release of death. I prayed for it. I begged the merciful gods to put me out of my misery, even if only for long enough for my body to heal.  
    
    The fact of my Immortality had come back easily, without any sudden rush of realisation. It merely was.  
    
    Kerrie. I was called Kerrie by the locals. Short for Angerona. The memories came back slowly, like a gentle rain trickling at the corners of my mind.  
    
    I tried to lift my head, but everything hurt. Even moving my eyes to gauge my surroundings proved difficult.  
    
    I had no choice but to lie there for what felt like an eternity.  
    
    (Really, it might only have been ten or fifteen minutes, but it just as easily could have been a full day. I wasn't sure of anything at that point.)  
    
    All I could do was listen to the silence.  
    
    Gone were the sounds of the bustling macellum, of children laughing as they played . . . of life.  
    
    I almost didn't want to look, now that I felt I could. But I had to.  
    
    I had been telling myself that everyone had stopped for the midday meal, or they were in quiet contemplation in the temples, or there was a festival in a field outside of town, too far away for me to hear the sounds of revelry.  
    
    All my attempts to convince myself of these things were unsuccessful.  
    
    It took me a moment to find my courage. Whatever I thought I might find when I rose, I had seen worse.  
    
    Or so I believed.  
    
    I pushed myself to a sitting position and surveyed the area around me. I was too shocked even to scream.  
    
    How many had perished? I wondered. How many friends would I never see again? Evelina and her brother, Quintus; their parents, Metella and Caecilius? Galvillaxia? Peragrillus? Lurella? Vepres Maxim? Vepres Minor? Cordula and Sperulos? Had any of them managed to survive?  
    
    Did I dare to hope anyone had made it out of Pompeii?  
    
    The river of fire - the lava - had begun to cool and harden. Ash covered everything as far as I could see. My insides churned as the fates of those trapped below coursed through my mind.  
    
    No, no, it was too much to bear!  
    
    Why had I made it out?  
    
    This wasn't the first time I had questioned this . . . gift of life.  
    
    Sometimes, the memories get to be more than I can handle. I grow weary of the game, of the killing, of losing people I care about.  
    
    Immortality isn't so much living forever as it is everyone else dying.  
    
    I cried out in the barely-held-onto hope that someone - anyone - would answer me.  
    
    It took several attempts to eke out anything more than a hoarse raspy whisper. When I was able to scream, all I got was my own voice echoing back to me.  
    
    Everyone around me was dead.  
    
    I was completely alone.  
    
    I had been alone before, but by choice. I would leave a place before those around me had a chance to guess what I was, then I'd wander for a time before settling someplace new.  
    
    Or they'd find out I wasn't aging and my wounds would heal almost instantly; they'd decide I was a goddess who needed to be returned to the realm of the divine or an evil entity to be cast out.  
    
    But I couldn't remember anything like _this_ happening before. I couldn't think of a time that the majority of those I lived amongst had died all at once.  
    
    I had lived through battles, pillagings, massacres, and plagues, but never before had I witnessed the sheer force of nature snuff out so many lives in so short a time.  
    
    Not even flash floods that had wiped away entire villages had taken so many.  
    
    Dear gods, why must I see so much death?  
    
    Death.  
    
    Death on a horse.  
    
    There are few people I know, beyond doubt, that I can trust, and one of them was near enough that I could make my way to his home in two days' time.  
    
    It took me six days to reach Lucius Alexander Priscus's home. My journey north was prolonged by the necessity of avoiding the more frequented routes; it would not do for me to die with witnesses to my revivals. But, with each death, breathing became less laboured, my limbs grew more flexible, my mind found more clarity.  
    
    When I reached my old friend's villa, I imagine I looked worse than I felt. His eyes widened when he saw me, and he laid down his sword to take me in his arms.  
    
    "Gods, I was so worried about you," he whispered into my hair.  
    
    I had no words at the moment, so I let him hold me for as long as he needed to to be sure that I was real.  
    
    "Come, you must be tired after your journey. You can have a hot bath, put on some fresh clothes, and join me for dinner."  
    
    At the mention of a _hot bath_ , I began to sob uncontrollably. He had to carry me inside and set me on a bed. He said something about delayed shock and that it would take time for me to recover from whatever ordeal I'd been through.  
    
    He stayed with me for hours until I finally cried myself to sleep. (Even then, I don't think he left my side for more than a minute.)  
    
    And then I was back in Pompeii, with flaming rocks and ash raining down on us as we scurried for cover or attempted to head out of the city. It was madness. My vision blurred until the sea of people became a living mosaic of colour, shifting and coalescing as they struggled to survive the wrath of the mountain.  
    
    Everyone was screaming out of terror, out of pain, out of misery . . . out of time.  
    
    "Meridianoctis!"  
    
    I could hear someone calling out to me from the crowd. But who?  
    
    "I hear you!" I called back. "Where are you?!"  
    
    "Follow my voice, Meridia. Come back to me, please. Please come back."  
    
    Come back? Had I gone somewhere?  
    
    Oh, no. Had I forgotten someone? In the chaos of everything, could I have been so concerned with my own survival that I'd been blinded to anything else?  
    
    _No!_ I told myself angrily. There was someone asking for my help, and I would do what I could, what I had sworn to do.  
    
    I began calling out to him again.  
    
    And was awakened by my own screams and Methos shaking me.  
    
    "What a relief," he sighed. "I was afraid I'd lost you." He collapsed beside me onto the bed.  
    
    I gazed about the elegantly furnished room. "Lost. They're all lost," I whispered.  
    
    He nodded, his face a grim mask. "Vesuvius has covered . . . more than one city. Some were able to escape by boat. Gaius  Plinius Secundus headed one effort."  
    
    I began weeping again, this time out of relief and gratitude that there were other survivors.  
    
    "How many?" I asked tremulously.  
    
    He shook his head. "Not sure. Some say a dozen, others say a hundred. Not to mention those lying about having been there to garner sympathy and profit."  
    
    The thought of anyone trying to capitalise on this tragedy was revolting. I ran out a side door and was sick.  
    
    Methos was two steps behind me with a damp cloth. "What happened to you there?" he asked softly.  
    
    I shuddered. "I'm not sure. I don't - I remember there was . . . I was trapped. I couldn't see anything. It was horrible. Lucius, I - " I buried my face in my hands.

* * *
    
    
    "Well, there you have it, Dawson. I haven't told Adam I found that old diary of mine. I trust you won't tell him either."  
    
    He shook his head, still in too much shock to say anything. The hell she must have gone through just to survive. The determination to get to someone she knew she could trust.  
    
    And now she had trusted him with one of her secrets.  
    
    What a remarkable woman she was.  
    
    "Why don't you want him knowing about that?" he asked softly.  
    
    She drew in a deep breath before answering. "If he knew I had written that much down, he'd want to know what else I'd recorded. He might start searching the Watchers' Archives." She shook her head sadly. "He'd arouse suspicion. He's normally so careful, but . . ."  
    
    "You don't want him losing his head over this. I mean, making himself nuts."  
    
    "Right. Shall I pour us another round?"  
    
    He cracked a smile. "Nah. I want to be clear-headed while I mull over what you've told me. Will you ever tell him you remember?"  
    
    "That's just it, Joe; I don't exactly remember. More like . . . it's in my head because I read the words, but the feel of it - Have you ever watched a home movie of yourself or seen a photograph of yourself, but you had no real memory of it being taken?"  
    
    "Yeah. Sure. A few times. Doesn't everybody?"  
    
    She pressed her lips together.  
    
    "So you know you were there, but you can't recall . . ?" Dawson asked after several moments of silence. "Lilith . . . Do you even _want_ to remember?"  
    
    The haunted look she gave him sent shivers down his spine.  
    
    "I'm afraid to remember," she admitted. "But there are times I wish I could. I still find it strange that I found anything of mine in that storage unit I bought."  
    
    "Yeah. What're the odds of finding something so valuable in an auction like that? Was there anything else interesting in there?"  
    
    "Oh, an old set of encyclopedias, a headboard I might restore, a desk that's seen better days . . . You're welcome to come take a look."  
    
    He perked up at that. "Yeah?"  
    
    "Of course. It's in the carriage house, whenever you want to make it out."  
    
    "Great! Thanks, I'll let you know . . . So what happened after that?"  
    
    She took a sip of the remnants of her coffee, long since cold. "What I wrote after . . . It was a few weeks later. I had a rough time of it, apparently. Nightmares when I could manage to sleep more than a few minutes. Seeing rivers of flame sweeping people away, even when I was awake. The faces of the dead accusing me, blaming me for their fates, as if the gods were punishing them for their association with me." She wiped a stray tear away.  
    
    Joe nodded grimly. "Survivor guilt. I know the feeling."  
    
    Lilith drew a shaky breath. "It took a few months before I was back to myself, or so I gather from the dates of each entry. I don't know what I would've done without Methos to help me."  
    
    From her tone, he surmised that that wasn't the only time the old man had done so much for her.  
    
    Her lips quirked as she glanced at the clock behind the bar. "Well, I guess I should let you finish closing up."  
    
    "Nothing left to do but lock up. I'll walk you out."  
    
    "Okay. Here, I'll wash the glasses. Only be a minute."  
    
    "Leave it, it's - Fine. Thanks, kid."  
    
    She chuckled lightly at the moniker. Even though she was old enough to be his grandmother many times over, he had taken an almost paternal liking to her.  
    
    "Right, then. Shall we?" she asked as she switched off the lights.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to FFN in 2017 (as Malady Pond du LesHeuresRoses)


End file.
